Slip 'n sliding on the Kinsey scale
by neverhappy10
Summary: In which Brittany is the Goddess we all now she is, Santana's so far in the closet she's found Narnia, Quinn is literally too gay to function and I abuse the Kinsey scale. Extraordinarily AU.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing she does, is smile, figuring she'd be one of God knows how many admirers.

But then the blonde gives her this incredible grin and beckons for Santana to come closer.

Her eyebrows shoot up. She looks around, but people have all gotten back to their dancing. She points at herself, mouthing 'me?'

The blonde nods enthusiastically.

Like a sad, light-depraved moth to the flame, her feet move on their own accord, carrying her towards the VIP area with the glass windows.

It is at that exact moment, of-fucking-course, that one of her best friends, Noah "Puck" Puckerman grabs her by the arm and yanks her away from Brittany's gaze.

"Hey, having fun?" He yelled into her ear over the deafening sound of the dance track.

She nods, smiling up up him. Puck grins back, as if to say "I told you so, Lopez." and gestures in the direction of the bar, where they'd be able to hear one another. Santana lets him guide her there, through the midst of sweaty bodies.

Puck's the guy that has a guy for everything, from drugs to fake id's to winter clothing. He knows probably better than anyone the social scene in LA and New York. Officially, he's Santana's personal assistance, but everybody knows that he just sort of tags along with the brunette, a part of her entourage.

They've been best friends since high school, but never went down the obvious route of dating. They'd made out a couple times, sure, just to test the waters, but nothing ever came of it.

Santana orders a gin and tonic, and Puck asks for a beer and the bartender's number (which was discreetly slipped to him on a napkin)

"Where are the others?"

Puck shrugs, "No idea, pretty sure faberry left," - Santana rolls her eyes. Faberry was the nickname they'd given to Quinn and Rachel, and on the occasion when they'd all go out together, those two were always the first to leave. Quinn says it because 'someone has to be responsible around here', but their incredibly unsubtle eye-fucking went by pretty much noticed by everyone. - "I haven't seen Mike and Artie around either." Mike Chang and Artie Abrams were her two co-stars. It's been rumored at one time or another that she's dated these guys. She thought about it, of course. Mike was ripped, but too nice for her taste and Artie was obsessed with Tina Cohen-Chang, one of the show's producers.

Just to be clear, Mike and Tina aren't related. In fact, Santana suspects there may be something going on between them. Asians.

The barkeep hands them their drinks, along with a suggestive smirk at Puck.

"Really, Puck? This is one of the few places I'd actually like to come back." Santana glares at him. The place _was_ nice, crowded, and the music was good. Absolutely nothing to do with the blonde she'd just seen.

"The ladies just want a piece of the Puckster. It's not my fault I get laid every night and you choose to go home to your vibrator instead of on some guy."

The brunette smacks him on the arm, only half playfully. "Fuck you, unlike _somebody_, I'm not a slut, thanks."

"You wish, Lopez. We both know you want me."

"I'd rather rip out both my eyes." Santana deadpans without missing a beat.

He put a hand on his chest, feigning hurt, "Ouch."

She sips her drink as Puck turns to flirt with the bartender, who was blatantly ignoring the other clubbers.

Her glass must've been spiked or something, because her mind drifts back to Brittany. Fine, Santana admits the woman is nothing if not attractive and a gifted dancer. She wants to see the blonde again, in a less crowded setting, sure. Wants to see her dance. Preferably sometime soon. The way Brittany moves so effortlessly, with such grace and confidence is incredible to watch, she can't help but be drawn in. Not like on a date or anything, obviously, she can't stress the fact that she's straight enough. Contrary to what Quinn might say whenever she so much as smiles at another female.

"You think I can charm my way into there?" Pucks says casually, taking a swig of his beer, snapping Santana back to the present.

Oops, she didn't realize that while her mind was occupied, her eyes had subconsciously found the subject of her thoughts. Good thing Puck didn't seem to notice her staring, or if he did, he didn't say anything. Well, he just did, but it wasn't about her staring.

Anyways.

"What, the VIP room?" She manages to sound calm and nonchalant, turning back to the bar. She was, after all, a Golden Globe winner.

"Yeah, I'd love me a lap dance." It's exactly the type of thing Puck would normally say when eyeing up a girl, and normally she'd just laugh it off, girls that get drunk and hook up with guys like Puck know what to expect, but this time, Santana doesn't like it. She doesn't like the thought of his hands tainting the blonde's body.

"Oh, really? Would you also like me to spit in your drink?"

Thank God for the barkeeper, who was now shooting daggers at Puck. She has to stifle a laugh, as he quickly turns to the woman, all apologetic. He deserved that one.

With Puck occupied, she allows herself to look around the club for Brittany again, but the blonde seems to either have disappeared into thin air, a figment of her overactive imagination, or more likely, gone home. She doesn't want to think about whether or not she left with someone.

Sighing, she leaves a 50 dollar bill on the bar (she's got more money than she knows what to do with) and tells Puck she's tired and wants to go home, to which he responds with a wave, heading back onto the dance floor, the bartender not far behind.

The air is crisp outside and Santana takes a few deep breaths, sobering up, not that she was drunk to being with. She opts to call a cab instead of calling for her driver. She usually hates how taxi drivers would try to subtly glance at her in the mirror, wondering if she was who she was, some of them would even ask for autographs. That's why she'd hired her own chauffeur to get her around town, actually she had asked Quinn to do the hiring, same thing. Unfortunately, he'd asked for a night off.

Thank God this particular man was only concentrating on the road, paying no attention to her. The ride was over before she knew it, and Santana gives the driver a huge tip, even asks for his number so she could call him next time she needed a cab ride.

After greeting the doorman, whose name, unbelievably, was Norman, she goes straight up to her penthouse, changes into her home clothes, and falls into a dreamless sleep. Except, she actually dreams about blonde hair, blue eyes and killer dance moves.

* * *

><p>It's been exactly 2 weeks since that night and Santana's pretty damn sure she's gone positively, clinically insane. Every single time she sees blonde hair, her heart does a double take, but thankfully it's never been the real thing. Whenever she has any free time, during lunch breaks, she finds herself going through YouTube videos uploaded from Brittany's VEVO account, scrolling down the blonde's twitter feed and even looked through some tumblelogs, she thinks they're called. Some were really nice, if a little obsessed, and others were downright stalkerish.<p>

Santana's not stupid, as clearly stated earlier. Everyone in the industry knows one another, and Brittany Pierce was only a couple of phone calls away, so she's not exactly looking for a needle in a haystack here. But then Quinn would find out...and that would be a problem. You see, Quinn Fabray had this delusional idea in her head that everyone she meets is gay, until proven otherwise.

To this day, she's still convinced that Puck is bisexual.

After a long day of shooting, one of the show's executive producers, Will Schuester, gathers everyone around.

"So listen, I've some good news. The role of Heather's been casted, and the lovely Brittany Pierce is going to play her."

Santana instantly perks up at the name. Because no fucking way.

After a round of polite clapping, Will continues, passing out what seems to be scripts. "We only knew a few days ago, and the writers just wrote her in earlier today. So, the script's been changed a little bit. Sorry guys."

She almost snatches her's out of Tina's hands and scans through the pages, looking for any scenes she might have with the blonde.

* * *

><p>The next day, she gets up bright and early. After doing all the necessary things, she grabs her phone and calls for her Mercedes to be pulled out front.<p>

Within the short span of time it took for her to ride the lift down to the first floor, the car is already there, ready to go.

"Morning miss Lopez." The driver greets her cheerily, handing over her usual cup of cappuccino.

"Morning Blaine." Leave it up to Quinn Fabray to hire a gay chauffeur. Still, he manages to get her coffee in the mornings, as well as responsible enough not to have sex in the backseat. Santana takes the hot beverage and takes a much needed sip. Quinn's probably already tweeting spoilers and fanning (read: starting) the rumors by now. The minute she got home last night, there was already a voicemail waiting for her:

"_Let's meet up for lunch tomorrow, I've got big plans, you'll see. I honestly couldn't have written that script better myself. Alright, Rach is calling me, so I better go. See how much better it is out here? Ok, bye._"

The ride went by uneventfully, Santana just scrolling through her twitter feed, and yup, sure enough, she's getting bombarded with questions.

She arrives on set and notices a couple of photographers there already, awaiting the arrival of Brittany, so she manages heads straight for her trailer without getting her picture taken.

Around 10 minutes of fidgeting and memorizing lines later, she hears a car pull up, followed by the unmistakable flashes of digital cameras. Brittany's here.

Oh God oh God oh God.

No, Santana internally scolds herself, grabbing a bottle of ice cold water and taking several large gulps, _don't freak out, she probably doesn't remember you anyway, so who cares. __OH GOD BUT WHAT IF SHE DOES, fucking awkward_. Another gulp of water. _Alright, you're just gonna go out there and do your thing._

Right.

A knock on her trailer makes her jump in surprise.

"Hey, come on out, Brittany's here." Santana ignores the unintentional double meaning of that sentence and reluctantly steps outside.

The blonde is even better looking in daylight. Her long, slightly style blonde hair falls effortlessly on her shoulders, eyes bluer than the ocean and deliciously red lips-

"Hey, I'm Brittany," Brittany states the obvious, extending her hand, "Big fan of your work."

"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Santana." It comes out slightly higher pitched than she would've liked, but whatever, the blonde doesn't seem to notice. "We just love this show I guess." She says, then laughs awkwardly.

"And I'm Quinn, her manager." Out of nowhere, Quinn pops up. This can't be good. "So I heard from Will over there that you two are gonna have a couple of scenes together, huh?"

"Hey, Quinn, and yeah, I'm really looking forward to it. I've been watching the show since the pilot."

"Cool, because I know for a fact that Santana here is _really_ looking forward to shooting with you." Quinn smirks, glancing at her enraged-under-the-surface client.

At that moment, someone from hair and makeup with superb timing drags Brittany away, leaving a very pleased with herself Quinn and a ready to kill someone Santana.

"What the fuck."

"Oh please, you should be thanking me. I saw how excited you got when I told you she was single."

"You weren't even looking at me. You were too busy staring at the Victoria Secret models."

"...Well first of all, they were hot, ok. I mean the underwear, the underwear was hot. And second of all, tell me you weren't Googling her relationship status on your phone to make sure."

"I was texting my boyfriend!"

"_Ex_ boyfriend." Quinn interjects immediately. "Don't lie, you broke up with him the moment I told you Brittany was single."

"I broke up with him the day after!" Santana huffs, and her manager just looks even more smug. "For a completely unrelated reason!"

"The reason being he had a dick." Quinn counters, not missing a beat.

Well, someone who's not her in the relationship did, and thought that although she was a good "beard", it was time for him to fully embrace himself, but that's beside the point.

"We didn't want the same things."

"You mean you two both wanted the _same_ thing."

"Hey Santana, we need you in hair and makeup." Dianna, her trusty makeup artist, comes just in time to drag her away from the lesbian queen over there.

Shooting one last death glare at a smug Quinn, who has the audacity to mouth 'lunch later, k?' at her, Santana goes to prepare for her scene.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing she does, is smile, figuring she'd be one of God knows how many admirers.

But then the blonde gives her this incredible grin and beckons for Santana to come closer.

Her eyebrows shoot up. She looks around, but people have all gotten back to their dancing. She points at herself, mouthing 'me?'

The blonde nods enthusiastically.

Like a sad, light-depraved moth to the flame, her feet move on their own accord, carrying her towards the VIP area with the glass windows.

It is at that exact moment, of-fucking-course, that one of her best friends, Noah "Puck" Puckerman grabs her by the arm and yanks her away from Brittany's gaze.

"Hey, having fun?" He yelled into her ear over the deafening sound of the dance track.

She nods, smiling up up him. Puck grins back, as if to say "I told you so, Lopez." and gestures in the direction of the bar, where they'd be able to hear one another. Santana lets him guide her there, through the midst of sweaty bodies.

Puck's the guy that has a guy for everything, from drugs to fake id's to winter clothing. He knows probably better than anyone the social scene in LA and New York. Officially, he's Santana's personal assistance, but everybody knows that he just sort of tags along with the brunette, a part of her entourage.

They've been best friends since high school, but never went down the obvious route of dating. They'd made out a couple times, sure, just to test the waters, but nothing ever came of it.

Santana orders a gin and tonic, and Puck asks for a beer and the bartender's number (which was discreetly slipped to him on a napkin)

"Where are the others?"

Puck shrugs, "No idea, pretty sure faberry left," - Santana rolls her eyes. Faberry was the nickname they'd given to Quinn and Rachel, and on the occasion when they'd all go out together, those two were always the first to leave. Quinn says it because 'someone has to be responsible around here', but their incredibly unsubtle eye-fucking went by pretty much noticed by everyone. - "I haven't seen Mike and Artie around either." Mike Chang and Artie Abrams were her two co-stars. It's been rumored at one time or another that she's dated these guys. She thought about it, of course. Mike was ripped, but too nice for her taste and Artie was obsessed with Tina Cohen-Chang, one of the show's producers.

Just to be clear, Mike and Tina aren't related. In fact, Santana suspects there may be something going on between them. Asians.

The barkeep hands them their drinks, along with a suggestive smirk at Puck.

"Really, Puck? This is one of the few places I'd actually like to come back." Santana glares at him. The place _was_ nice, crowded, and the music was good. Absolutely nothing to do with the blonde she'd just seen.

"The ladies just want a piece of the Puckster. It's not my fault I get laid every night and you choose to go home to your vibrator instead of on some guy."

The brunette smacks him on the arm, only half playfully. "Fuck you, unlike _somebody_, I'm not a slut, thanks."

"You wish, Lopez. We both know you want me."

"I'd rather rip out both my eyes." Santana deadpans without missing a beat.

He put a hand on his chest, feigning hurt, "Ouch."

She sips her drink as Puck turns to flirt with the bartender, who was blatantly ignoring the other clubbers.

Her glass must've been spiked or something, because her mind drifts back to Brittany. Fine, Santana admits the woman is nothing if not attractive and a gifted dancer. She wants to see the blonde again, in a less crowded setting, sure. Wants to see her dance. Preferably sometime soon. The way Brittany moves so effortlessly, with such grace and confidence is incredible to watch, she can't help but be drawn in. Not like on a date or anything, obviously, she can't stress the fact that she's straight enough. Contrary to what Quinn might say whenever she so much as smiles at another female.

"You think I can charm my way into there?" Pucks says casually, taking a swig of his beer, snapping Santana back to the present.

Oops, she didn't realize that while her mind was occupied, her eyes had subconsciously found the subject of her thoughts. Good thing Puck didn't seem to notice her staring, or if he did, he didn't say anything. Well, he just did, but it wasn't about her staring.

Anyways.

"What, the VIP room?" She manages to sound calm and nonchalant, turning back to the bar. She was, after all, a Golden Globe winner.

"Yeah, I'd love me a lap dance." It's exactly the type of thing Puck would normally say when eyeing up a girl, and normally she'd just laugh it off, girls that get drunk and hook up with guys like Puck know what to expect, but this time, Santana doesn't like it. She doesn't like the thought of his hands tainting the blonde's body.

"Oh, really? Would you also like me to spit in your drink?"

Thank God for the barkeeper, who was now shooting daggers at Puck. She has to stifle a laugh, as he quickly turns to the woman, all apologetic. He deserved that one.

With Puck occupied, she allows herself to look around the club for Brittany again, but the blonde seems to either have disappeared into thin air, a figment of her overactive imagination, or more likely, gone home. She doesn't want to think about whether or not she left with someone.

Sighing, she leaves a 50 dollar bill on the bar (she's got more money than she knows what to do with) and tells Puck she's tired and wants to go home, to which he responds with a wave, heading back onto the dance floor, the bartender not far behind.

The air is crisp outside and Santana takes a few deep breaths, sobering up, not that she was drunk to being with. She opts to call a cab instead of calling for her driver. She usually hates how taxi drivers would try to subtly glance at her in the mirror, wondering if she was who she was, some of them would even ask for autographs. That's why she'd hired her own chauffeur to get her around town, actually she had asked Quinn to do the hiring, same thing. Unfortunately, he'd asked for a night off.

Thank God this particular man was only concentrating on the road, paying no attention to her. The ride was over before she knew it, and Santana gives the driver a huge tip, even asks for his number so she could call him next time she needed a cab ride.

After greeting the doorman, whose name, unbelievably, was Norman, she goes straight up to her penthouse, changes into her home clothes, and falls into a dreamless sleep. Except, she actually dreams about blonde hair, blue eyes and killer dance moves.

* * *

><p>It's been exactly 2 weeks since that night and Santana's pretty damn sure she's gone positively, clinically insane. Every single time she sees blonde hair, her heart does a double take, but thankfully it's never been the real thing. Whenever she has any free time, during lunch breaks, she finds herself going through YouTube videos uploaded from Brittany's VEVO account, scrolling down the blonde's twitter feed and even looked through some tumblelogs, she thinks they're called. Some were really nice, if a little obsessed, and others were downright stalkerish.<p>

Santana's not stupid, as clearly stated earlier. Everyone in the industry knows one another, and Brittany Pierce was only a couple of phone calls away, so she's not exactly looking for a needle in a haystack here. But then Quinn would find out...and that would be a problem. You see, Quinn Fabray had this delusional idea in her head that everyone she meets is gay, until proven otherwise.

To this day, she's still convinced that Puck is bisexual.

After a long day of shooting, one of the show's executive producers, Will Schuester, gathers everyone around.

"So listen, I've some good news. The role of Heather's been casted, and the lovely Brittany Pierce is going to play her."

Santana instantly perks up at the name. Because no fucking way.

After a round of polite clapping, Will continues, passing out what seems to be scripts. "We only knew a few days ago, and the writers just wrote her in earlier today. So, the script's been changed a little bit. Sorry guys."

She almost snatches her's out of Tina's hands and scans through the pages, looking for any scenes she might have with the blonde.

* * *

><p>The next day, she gets up bright and early. After doing all the necessary things, she grabs her phone and calls for her Mercedes to be pulled out front.<p>

Within the short span of time it took for her to ride the lift down to the first floor, the car is already there, ready to go.

"Morning miss Lopez." The driver greets her cheerily, handing over her usual cup of cappuccino.

"Morning Blaine." Leave it up to Quinn Fabray to hire a gay chauffeur. Still, he manages to get her coffee in the mornings, as well as responsible enough not to have sex in the backseat. Santana takes the hot beverage and takes a much needed sip. Quinn's probably already tweeting spoilers and fanning (read: starting) the rumors by now. The minute she got home last night, there was already a voicemail waiting for her:

"_Let's meet up for lunch tomorrow, I've got big plans, you'll see. I honestly couldn't have written that script better myself. Alright, Rach is calling me, so I better go. See how much better it is out here? Ok, bye._"

The ride went by uneventfully, Santana just scrolling through her twitter feed, and yup, sure enough, she's getting bombarded with questions.

She arrives on set and notices a couple of photographers there already, awaiting the arrival of Brittany, so she manages heads straight for her trailer without getting her picture taken.

Around 10 minutes of fidgeting and memorizing lines later, she hears a car pull up, followed by the unmistakable flashes of digital cameras. Brittany's here.

Oh God oh God oh God.

No, Santana internally scolds herself, grabbing a bottle of ice cold water and taking several large gulps, _don't freak out, she probably doesn't remember you anyway, so who cares. __OH GOD BUT WHAT IF SHE DOES, fucking awkward_. Another gulp of water. _Alright, you're just gonna go out there and do your thing._

Right.

A knock on her trailer makes her jump in surprise.

"Hey, come on out, Brittany's here." Santana ignores the unintentional double meaning of that sentence and reluctantly steps outside.

The blonde is even better looking in daylight. Her long, slightly style blonde hair falls effortlessly on her shoulders, eyes bluer than the ocean and deliciously red lips-

"Hey, I'm Brittany," Brittany states the obvious, extending her hand, "Big fan of your work."

"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Santana." It comes out slightly higher pitched than she would've liked, but whatever, the blonde doesn't seem to notice. "We just love this show I guess." She says, then laughs awkwardly.

"And I'm Quinn, her manager." Out of nowhere, Quinn pops up. This can't be good. "So I heard from Will over there that you two are gonna have a couple of scenes together, huh?"

"Hey, Quinn, and yeah, I'm really looking forward to it. I've been watching the show since the pilot."

"Cool, because I know for a fact that Santana here is _really_ looking forward to shooting with you." Quinn smirks, glancing at her enraged-under-the-surface client.

At that moment, someone from hair and makeup with superb timing drags Brittany away, leaving a very pleased with herself Quinn and a ready to kill someone Santana.

"What the fuck."

"Oh please, you should be thanking me. I saw how excited you got when I told you she was single."

"You weren't even looking at me. You were too busy staring at the Victoria Secret models."

"...Well first of all, they were hot, ok. I mean the underwear, the underwear was hot. And second of all, tell me you weren't Googling her relationship status on your phone to make sure."

"I was texting my boyfriend!"

"_Ex_ boyfriend." Quinn interjects immediately. "Don't lie, you broke up with him the moment I told you Brittany was single."

"I broke up with him the day after!" Santana huffs, and her manager just looks even more smug. "For a completely unrelated reason!"

"The reason being he had a dick." Quinn counters, not missing a beat.

Well, someone who's not her in the relationship did, and thought that although she was a good "beard", it was time for him to fully embrace himself, but that's beside the point.

"We didn't want the same things."

"You mean you two both wanted the _same_ thing."

"Hey Santana, we need you in hair and makeup." Dianna, her trusty makeup artist, comes just in time to drag her away from the lesbian queen over there.

Shooting one last death glare at a smug Quinn, who has the audacity to mouth 'lunch later, k?' at her, Santana goes to prepare for her scene.


	3. Chapter 3

It's the very first scene of the day, and of course, she's in it. Thankfully, however, Brittany's character, Heather, wouldn't get introduced til about 3 or 4 scenes later. She has time to prepare herself, not that she needs it, obviously.

Everything's in place, and the set is quiet, awaiting the director to start shooting.

"And action!" He yells, and almost immediately, Santana goes into her character mode. Going through the motions and reciting her lines as if she really were the character. It's always been one of the main constants in her life, being able to step into someone else's shoes and walking a mile in them without much effort. That, and being able to belt out her favorite song at any given time, with or without the presence of a microphone. Acting and singing for her was like eating and breathing, she was born to entertain.

The scenes go by a lot smoother and quicker than she had anticipated. Maybe the cast and crew were especially on their game today, what with the special guest star and all. They were currently doing sort of a tribute episode to Shakespeare. The episode loosely based on Twelfth Night, because one of the writers attended his daughter's school play and suddenly came up with the genius idea to create an interpretation of one of the greatest writers of all time's work.

It's the last scene before Brittany comes in, and luckily, it's a simple one. Just the three main leads together. It's very reminiscent of the first few episodes, before the show went big and the guest stars started coming in.

"And...action!"

_"You're pretending to be something you're not. Have you seen the movies? It never ends well." _Mike's character, Harry, was her on-screen best friend. The somewhat stereotypical cute nerdy guy who doesn't know it. The angel on her shoulder, if you will.

_"Well damn good thing this is real life then." The devil on her other shoulder was her character's brother Kevin - _played by none other than Artie Abrams_ - points out, rather ironically._

_"Wow, thanks for the awesome advice, but it's only for a couple days. It's not like anybody would even notice anyway." She shrugs._

_Kevin smirks triumphantly at Harry. "That's my little sis."_

_"Yeahhh, I'm not sneaking you in there."_

_Kevin's smirk immediately falters, but he quickly regains his cool demeanor. "I would never ask you to do that though, I'm hurt you even had to say that."_

_Naya (Santana's character), glares at her brother suspiciously._

_"Alright, now get outta my room."_

_Ahh, there was the Kevin she knew._

"And cut! Done. Great job people, take 5. Santana, you have a scene with Brittany next." The director shouts. As if Santana needed any reminding.

She goes into the dressing room and changes her outfit and make up. The scenes with Brittany will be shot as early as possible, she's told, because of the blonde's hectic schedule. She's only going to be in LA for a few weeks before jetting back to NYC to shoot her latest movie, not to mention the load of press events she'll have to attend while in the city.

Brittany gets hair and makeup done in her trailer, so Santana wouldn't see her until the actual shooting of the scene. She half wants to hurry the stylist up, but half wants this process to drag out as long as possible.

It's the fastest 5 minutes of her life later when she's ready to shoot the scene. Brittany comes out, looking drop dead gorgeous as per usual. Santana wonders if when God made her, he accidentally dropped the whole vial of 'sexy' into the mix. Whenever she used to look at the billboards of the dancer, she's always assumed it was thanks to a dedicated team of experienced photoshop artists. But now, maybe not so much.

Brittany gives her a small wave and this excited little grin, like a kid about to open her presents on Christmas day, that's so adorable, she can't not smile back.

"Don't worry, I've seen your movies, you'll be fine." Santana tells her, and surprisingly, that's what she really thinks.

"Not as good as you though."

Yeah, okay, Santana may have blushed a little, but she always appreciates every bit of praise she gets, so it's no big deal.

The director interrupts their little conversation by telling them both to get into places, to which Santana rolls her eyes a little. She's not an amateur, thank you very much.

Basically, the scene introduces the character Heather, a "very attractive and down to Earth girl", who becomes the love interest of Kevin, and later on they have a love triangle involving Harry as well. Naya sort of gets jealous, breaks them all up, thus creating a wedge between her and her two closest guys. New storyline. Easy peasy.

"And, action!" The director starts them off.

_They're at the local library, where Naya's boredly looking through Shakespeare play for her English lit assignment. 'Memorize and recite your favorite scene in a Shakespeare play.' Eurgh. She hates memorizing stuff, it's pointless, considering the minute it's done, everyone just forgets. plus, she's pretty sure her professor often sneaks peeks at his book, not like he himself could remember all of Shakespeare's stuff. Still, she needs at least a B if she wants to get into a good college and get out of his town._

_"Shakespeare?"_

_Naya looks up and is greeted with a tall, blue-eyed blonde who looks about the same age as herself. The girl doesn't look familiar at all, which, considering the tiny size of the town, must mean she has just moved here._

_She chuckles, flipping to the front cover. "Yeah, Twelfth Night. Pretty bo-"_

_"My favorite!"_

_Oh, so the girl's a nerd. Not necessarily bad, she could really use a bookworm to help her out._

_"Mine, too." She lies, feigning an excited smile. "I'm doing this thing for English lit. I have to memorize lines in a scene."_

Out of the corner of Santana's eyes, she sees Quinn whispering something into the director's ear, to which he responds with a nod and smile. But she forces herself not to think about it and get back into the scene.

_Naya flips to a random page and starts reading, "Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honor, truth and everything, I love thee, so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit, nor reason can my passion hide. Do not-"_

_"Extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause, But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better." Heather recites expertly, as if she herself had written the play._

Her mouth opens, but her throat seems to have closed up. For the first time ever, Santana forgets her line, misses her cue, falls out of character. All because a pair of crystal blue eyes.

"Cut!" The director yells suddenly, slicing through the silence, almost making the brunette jump in surprise.

Santana breathes a sigh of relief, whatever the hell had gone over her right then went seemingly unnoticed. Well, who said you didn't need a bit of luck every now and then. Seems as though she should head off to Vegas, what with her current streak. She chances a look at Brittany, who smiled at her and gives her a thumbs up.

But then the director heads over to them and Santana snaps out of it. Of course he'd noticed, probably just wanted to save some embarrassment for her and the crew in front of the blonde who's probably going to rake in the viewers. So she mentally prepares herself for the director to tell her something along the lines of "Get your head in the game." It's ridiculously common how often actors forget their lines and make a fool out of themselves, but Santana prides herself on being a total professional. Guess not anymore.

He glances between the two of them, and even Quinn is looking very anxious to see what's going on.

"Listen, that was fantastic, ladies." Well, that was unexpected. "Great scene." Santana blinks, she looks to the blonde standing next to her, but comes to the conclusion that she doesn't know what the director's leading up to either.

"I've had an idea." He tells them finally, glancing between her and the blonde, looking somewhat perplexed, before turning to Santana. "Kiss her."

Quinn's jaw drops, and the set goes so silent, you could literally hear a pin drop.

"What?" Santana manages to ask incredulously. "There's n-nothing in the script about k-kissing me. I mean her kissing me."

The director raises and eyebrow. "Unless of course, you're not comfortable."

"Of course I am." The brunette snaps back instantly before her mind could even come up with a reply.

"Well then...do you not _want_ to kiss her?"

"No!" Santana squeaks out, before realizing the full extent of what she'd said. "I mean not _no, _obviously. I'm sure miss Pierce is a great...kisser." She finishes lamely, before quickly adding, "I mean I wouldn't know, but there's nothing wrong with kissing her. Not that there ever was something wrong, of course. I mean...um, how would it go with the script, exactly?"

"Okay, I'll be straight with you. Whether it's accidental or not, you two have this indescribable chemistry. It's almost..." he gestures with his hands, trying to find the right word, "Palpable. It could be a real gold mine."

"Take five, everyone." He quickly announces before turning back to the brunette.

Santana's face hardens, "Did Quinn put you up to this?" Her manager was still watching the exchange like a hawk, although she probably couldn't hear them.

"Quinn, as in, your manager Quinn? Um, no. We try not to be biased like that."

"So then you're just making me kiss her to create some sort of media frenzy to raise the ratings?" She hisses.

He sighs, "Look, I'm not making you do anything, just try it, okay?"

Noticing Brittany was still nearby, looking on with an unreadable expression on her face, Santana relents. It'd probably look worse if she doesn't kiss her now. "Fine." And the director smiles, satisfied.

She's a professional, she could do this. She's kissed plenty of people in roles before. Right? Right.

"Ok, places, everyone." He says, going back and taking a seat on his chair, headphones on.

Santana looks at Brittany, who's biting her bottom lip, but other than that, doesn't give away what she's thinking.

"Action!"

_"Cesario, by the roses of the spring," _Her voice is a little shaky, and she has to force her mind to focus on the words on the page, reminding herself that Naya doesn't know what's going to happen._ "By maidhood, honor, truth and everything, I love thee, so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit, nor reason can my passion hide. Do not-"_

_"Extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause, But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better." Heather recites expertly, as if she herself had written the play._

Santana takes a subtle deep breath, and leans in, her heart hammering inside her ribcage. Their lips brush together gently, timidly, and Santana has to stifle a moan. Her senses are engulfed in Brittany, under her spell. Everything from her scent, to her incredibly soft lips, to the warmth radiating from her body. It all hits her at once, and Santana's completely defenseless. She loses herself.

Her left hand instinctively comes up to hold Brittany in place, cautiously deepening the kiss. She hears a groan, so small there's no way anybody other than them could hear it, but it's there, and she doesn't know who it came from. She doesn't even care.

The kiss goes on for a second longer than necessary, or maybe more than that, but when it does, Santana has to physically pry herself away. She stupidly glances at Brittany, whose eyes are just a shade darker now, and the blonde gives her a look that she can't quite decipher. It's only when she looks around that she sees the crew's half shocked, half entranced expressions. They, too, felt it. Whatever 'it' was.

"Fine." The director's voice cuts through the tension, the cue for people to snap out of it and pretend as though they hadn't just been watching at the edge of their proverbial seats.

"Fine?" She hears herself question.

"Yeah, it was fine." The director replies nonchalantly, utterly oblivious, before looking back down at his notes or whatever was on that piece of paper on his lap. "Alright, can somebody get Mike, please..."

Santana tunes out, motionlessly stands up and heads straight for her trailer. The show the very last thing on her mind.

It's about five minutes later, when someone knocks on her trailer door.

"Come on in, Quinn." She sighs, figuring it was going to happen sooner or later.

Her manager appears, and to Santana's surprise, she's not carrying rainbow socks or a shirt with a unicorn on it.

"I just told him that I thought Brittany was really good." The blonde says, as if reading her mind. "I had no idea he was gonna make you kiss her. Honest!"

"Sure you didn't."

"Was she a good kisser? Rachel's dying to know. I think she has a little crush on her, actually." Quinn asks in a half mocking, half serious tone.

"None of your business, Quinn. Now could you please leave, I need to re-learn my lines."

Quinn looks taken aback. "Are you...You're not...did you...like it? I mean,_ like_ it, like it. As in you wanna kis-"

"I fucking know what you mean, Quinn. And no. No, I don't. I was just caught off-guard, that's all."

The blonde puts both her hands up in a surrender gesture. "OK, fine, but next time, don't immediately run off to your trailer like that. It looks kind of suspicious. People might, God forbid, think you enjoyed kissing a girl."

Santana shrugs, changing the subject, "Are they gonna use it?"

"Maybe. Why, scared the whole world's gonna find out you secretly are a lesbian?" Quinn teases. A good sign.

"No." She says, almost too quickly. "I just wanna see how they're gonna fit it into the script."

A beeping sound emanates from Quinn's phone. "I gotta go, Rach just texted me. I'll see you later okay. If you have more kissing scenes then call me."

With that, she leaves Santana alone with her thoughts.

About 10 seconds later she hears Quinn knocking again. She must've forgotten something. So she goes to open the door. "Wow that was qui-"

"Hi."

"Brittany."


	4. Chapter 4

Santana doesn't know what's happening when she finds the blonde's lips on her own, and the overwhelming sweeping sensation of _Brittany_ hits her twice as hard this time round.

The sound of the trailer door closing behind them barely registers in her mind as the blonde's arms snakes around her waist, pulling their bodies flush against one another. Fuck, that's right. They were still on set, with the whole cast and crew literally right outside. People could hear them, or worse yet, see them.

"This is a bad idea." Santana whispers, putting her hands on Brittany's shoulders and pulling away slightly. Still, their faces were only inches apart, breaths mingling, and Brittany already has her under a spell impossible to snap out of.

"It is a good idea, Santana." The blonde speaks softly against her lips. Just the way she says her name is enough to send spirals of lust through her. "Really, really good."

Brittany mouth moves over her with a renewed hunger that pulled at the brunette. Her blood pounding in her veins. Her brain was kicking and screaming, yelling at her to pull away as her arms wrap themselves around Brittany's neck. Her tongue sliding between her lips, caressing the warm interior of her mouth and Santana's apprehension dissolves into thin air, all she can think about is that tongue traveling her body. All she knows is that it feels so good, so _incredibly good_. She'd never felt need like this. Her hips instinctively grinds against Brittany's and she hears herself let out a strangled gasp. All of a sudden she hates the shirt she's wearing, it's too tight against her skin, maddeningly uncomfortable, and right now, it's separating her skin from Brittany's.

Almost as if the blonde could read her mind, her hands move to the buttons of her shirt, working expertly at undoing them.

Santana nearly melts to the floor when Brittany's lips travel down to her neck, nibbling at them and murmurs against her skin.

"God, I've wanted to do this since that night at the club." She licks her collarbone. "You taste good."

Brittany finally manages to get her shirt unbuttoned, and she instantly bends down, kissing the swells above the top of her bra hungrily. Her hands travel down Santana's body, circling her waist, then she lifts her up and sits her on the nearby table as she moves between her thighs.

Santana says something, but it's incomprehensible, her strained voice seems to come from so far away; the sound of her blood pounding in her ears was so loud. She pulls at Brittany's shirt, desperate to feel the smooth skin underneath.

Brittany grunts frustratedly, and pins both the shorter girl's arms above her head. Santana doesn't even bother resisting. With her other hand, Brittany unclasps her bra, freeing her breasts from their confinement. Her mouth quickly closes over one nipple and her fingers found the other, making the brunette nearly cry out. She sucks, nibbles, kisses and tortures Santana slowly, deliberately. It was driving her crazy with want. Little tremors gripped her with every pull of the blonde's mouth on her nipple, every flick of her tongue made Santana want to scream. She has to stifle a moan, or several, as she arches against Brittany, craving more. Always more.

"Santana, we're going out to lunch. You feeling better?" Artie's voice and a loud knock on the trailer door makes them both freeze.

They grab each other, panting for breath. Brittany immediately lets her go, but the blonde's intensely hot gaze and hooded eyes reflect the unfulfilled lust in her own. The air was thick with tension, frustration. It's only after a couple of seconds of heavy breathing does Santana find her voice.

"Uh, yeah." She answers, but her voice still sounded so shaky. She hopes to God he doesn't notice. "Gimme a minute, I'll go with you guys."

"Cool. We'll wait." He says, and she held her breath as the sound of his footsteps tell her that he's going the other way.

Santana almost sprints to the nearest mirror to fasten her bra and button up her shirt. Fuck. She looks like she's been through hell and back. Her lips swollen from Brittany's kisses, her cheeks flaming red like she'd just run 10 miles flat and her neck was pink. What's worse, she feels as though she's literally burning up, still throbbing with want. Then the sight of Brittany in the mirror catches her eye. Shit. She sighs, turning around.

"I'm sorry. I have to go." She says quickly, avoiding eye contact. Because she knows that the second she looks into Brittany's eyes, her already weak resolve would crumble. She was entranced. More than entranced. The slightest touch would make her want to rip all her clothes off and pounce on the dancer. Whatever the adjective for that is.

Santana gets within an arm's length of the door handle before her feels herself being yanked back into Brittany by her wrist. Their lips find each other instantly, Brittany's kiss full of intent, longing, and pure, unadulterated want. Santana can't help tasting the blonde's lower lip that she keeps nibbling on and draws it into her mouth. Tilting her head, Brittany deepens the kiss, their breaths blending as she moved her tongue against Santana's in long slow strokes, sending tingles all the way down to her toes.

Brittany doesn't let up, her mouth moving down Santana's jaw, devouring her, sucking and nipping at the warm skin of her throat. She could feel the rumble of her the shorter's girl's groan against her tongue. She knows she'll have to let go soon, though. So she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and produces a flat, plastic card.

"Please," She whispers into Santana's ear, her voice thick with arousal, putting the card in her hand, her tongue outlining her ear with a slow sweep for good measure.

The brunette looks down at the item. It's a keycard for a suite at the Four Seasons. "I'm cancelling everything tonight," She says. "I'll wait for you, now go."

* * *

><p>"Wow, you're really burning up, huh? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Mike said, being the brilliantly nice guy he is.<p>

"No, no I'm fine. I'm sure I'll feel better after some lunch." Santana replied quickly, although she's not sure if food was going to make her feel better. Maybe a cold shower. Fuck. Her mind was barely functioning properly. All she thinks about is Brittany, Brittany, Brittany.

She'll go tonight, but only to tell her that it's not gonna happen. For several reasons, her mind tells her.

A) She's not an expert on the Kinsey scale, but she's pretty sure it's not very heterosexual to have sex with her. Even if said sex is mindblowingly awesome.

B) If word gets out, things could look bad. They were both at that stage in their careers where everything they said and did needed to be consulted with their publicist and manager beforehand.

C) She's not going to be able to stop herself. Like, at all. Brittany is like a drug, and once you're hooked, you become dependent on it. Santana's learned some valuable lessons about drugs. Also, look at Quinn.

D) Well, she hasn't thought of a fourth reason yet, but she's sure there are more.

After lunch, where Santana was quiet the whole way through, she heads back to her penthouse, claiming she needed the rest of the day off. Quinn proved herself to be useful, practically threatening (politely, of course. Quinn prided herself on being a lady after all)

First thing she does is take a fucking cold shower. Even then, she can still smell Brittany on her skin, taste Brittany on her tongue. It was awful (so much better than she expects).

She thinks about grabbing the trusty old vibrator, but then her phone rings.

It's Quinn. Well, _that's_ unexpected.

"I'm sick, don't bother me." They don't bother with pleasantries anymore. It's that type of relationship.

Quinn scoffs on the other hand, "Yeah, right, and I just had sex with Ryan Reynolds. You seem to have forgotten why I'm so good at my job. You don't _cough_ without me knowing. What's really up?"

"Nothing. I'm just feeling off today."

"Fine, if you don't want to tell me then I guess I'll just have to find out myself."

"There's nothing to find!"

"What am I, five?"

Santana sighs, it's true. The woman seems to have cameras planted in your brain or something. She's going to have to tell her the truth. "I'm...um, frustrated." Or, something as close to the truth as possible.

"With what? Your salary? Screen time? Interviews? Endorsements?"

She picks one at random. "Salary."

"You make six figures per episode, and you started a year ago."

Fuck. Right, she does. She's about to say something else, but her manager cuts her off. "I don't have time for this. We'll talk tomorrow. If you've recovered from this sudden flu." She says, with emphasis on the 'flu'. "By the way, I asked around. They're probably not gonna use that scene, so don't worry about your parents seeing it or whatever. But I'm pretty sure there's a couple of pictures floating around, so probably don't open your twitter."

Great. The last thing she needs is pictures of her and Brittany kissing on set going around the internet. Her fans, and probably Brittany's, too, would go nuts over this. The worst part is, the rumors are true.

* * *

><p>Dinnertime comes way too soon for her liking, and she doesn't even want what her private (and probably gay, considering Quinn was the one who hired him) chef has to offer. Instead, she orders some takeout, even though said chef and Quinn will probably yell at her tomorrow, consumed in her thoughts.<p>

Her stomach is in knots, and she's not sure how she's going to go about the Brittany situation. She doesn't want to lead Brittany on, obviously, but she also doesn't want to piss her off either. God knows, she might sue, and it'll be a huge fucking mess and possibly ruin her career.

It's 8, and then 9. Funny how time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it? Finally, at around 10:30, she heads off to the hotel, still no idea what to say.

The whole ride up the elevator, she can't breathe properly.

Walking to the suite, she considers turning back several times, but her feet keeps on dragging her towards Brittany.

She almost can't quite bring herself to slide the card through the slot. But then she does. Taking a much needed deep breath to calm down (which doesn't really work), she pushes the door open.


	5. Chapter 5

"You look..." Quinn narrows her eyes suspiciously, "What happened that I don't know?"

Santana clears her throat, feeling her cheeks become red. Fucking Quinn and her I-know-everything-bitch-you-can't-hide-from-me ways. "Nothing. I just feel better today, that's all."

The blonde woman looks her up and down, obviously not satisfied with that answer. "Good then. Now go and try not to make an idiot out of yourself, ok? This is about _Brittany_, not you."

Santana lets out a sigh inwardly, relieved that Quinn chose not to dig further, at least for now. "Sure."

They're at a press conference for the show, after an easy-going day on set - where she avoided Brittany like the plague - mainly to show off the newest guest star and get some media attention. All to boost the ratings, which aren't terrible, but they do want to seal a 2, maybe 3 year renewal as quickly as possible. So, the main cast were all there, along with the executive producers and a couple of directors. Thank God they there's a three-day weekend starting immediately after. Because God knows Santana needs time to get herself together.

The hour goes by relatively quickly, the questions were the usual ones about possible plot lines, future projects for Brittany, bla bla bla. Santana somewhat tunes out and lets everyone else answer them, occasionally nodding along to seem involved.

"Ok, we have time for 4 or 5 more questions, everyone, so think up some good ones." Someone announces from the back of the room.

"I have a question for miss Pierce." A reporter raises his hand, and from the looks of his ID, he's from Entertainment Weekly.

"Yes." Brittany smiles her million dollar smile, pointing to the guy.

"I know you've loved living in New York for most of your life, how are you liking the city of Angels? Are there any night clubs you especially want to go to?"

There's scattered laughter around the room. Brittany just smirks, speaking into the mic, "It's been tough, you know? With the press commitments, interviews, and I just started filming yesterday! When I get back to the hotel, I just wanna relax. Watch some TV, things like that."

_She hears Santana opening the door just as she comes out from the shower, dressed in shorts and a tank top. Thank God, Brittany was starting to think that the girl wasn't going to show at all. She wants Santana, she wants Santana _bad_. She's waited so long, fantasized about the actress so many fucking times, body writhing underneath her own. She needs her _**now**_. Truth was, it was her who asked for that kiss scene. It's probably one of the best ideas she's had since signing with her record label._

_"Hi." Santana says, and Brittany can tell she's forcing her eyes to stay above her head._

_She doesn't say anything in return. Instead, she takes a step towards her. Slowly. Brittany doesn't want to scare Santana off. She's not a predator, and the brunette certainly wasn't the prey._

_"Listen, Brittany. I only came here to say..." Brittany takes another step forward, eyes staring into Santana's, daring her to finish that sentence. She knows it's risky, there's always a chance that Santana will turn around and run the other way, but she'll be damned if she forces her into this. Santana gulps audibly, her hands have bunched up into fists. The blonde's getting to her, chipping away at her resolve. Fuck._

_Their bodies are excruciatingly close now. Santana can even sense the heat radiating off Brittany's body. She can smell Brittany's scent. She can practically feel the blonde all over. All she'd need to do is lean forward ever so slightly..._

_Her eyes find a drop of water, trickling down the side of the dancer's face, she follows it down her jaw, and disappear beneath the tank top, tongue subconsciously darting out to lick her lips. Then she makes the mistake of raising her head back up and finds Brittany's mouth open, soft, and yielding._

_She doesn't know who kisses who first, but it's overwhelming relief and torture at the same time._

The reporter nods, scribbling away in his notepad. Santana takes a large swig from her water bottle.

"How has it been working with the whole cast?" Another reporter questions, a woman this time.

The producers clear their throat loudly, while others just chuckle.

Brittany shrugs, "It's been great. Everyone's so sweet and welcoming. I already feel like part of the family." She nods, glancing around the table at everyone.

"We love you already." Mike comments with a genuine grin on his face. A collective "awww" goes around the room.

_Brittany's lips move expertly over Santana's, her tongue stroking the delicate skin inside her lips then teasing her tongue._

_Santana almost feels bad for the blonde's fans, because if only they could taste her like she's tasting her now. Almost._

_"Do you want me to stop?" Brittany breathes out as her lips leave a trail of flames across her jaw to her ear as she nibbles slowly._

_Her head and the rest of her body fight it out. A strangled 'yes' and a desperate 'no' both die in her throat. Brittany takes it as a 'no', her hands gripping __at Santana's waist, pulling their bodies closer. She nuzzles the sensitive skin right under her ear. "Good, because I wouldn't have been able to." Her lips nip at Santana's neck and shoulder._

_Santana loses it then, pulling furiously at Brittany's tank top. She would rip it off if she has to. Her body was humming with need. The blonde lets her go long enough for her top to be pulled off and not a second more before her mouth finds Santana's again, devouring it. Brittany's head tilts, her tongue licking then delving past her lips, her teeth, invading the warm interior. She sips at her tongue and nibbles at her lips as she stalks her, pressing Santana's back until she finds herself wedged between the rough, cold wall of the room and the searing heat of Brittany's body._

_Within a second, Santana's shirt is on the floor and Brittany's thumbs are massaging her nipples over her bra. She's squirming as the blonde's hands move lower, slowly, as though she loves the feel of her stomach beneath her fingertips, engulfing all of Santana's senses with every. single. touch._

_Brittany unbuttons the girl's jeans like she's done it a million times before. Her fingers trailing lower, just above the elastic band of Santana's panties. Gently, lightly, she teases the ultra sensitive skin and the brunette feels like she's going to go up in red hot flames._

"I have a question for miss Lopez."

Santana instantly goes back into PR mode as she hears her name called out. "Yeah?"

"So there's a very interesting picture which I think you'd want to look at, here."

Her heart stops, but she manages to keep her cool. "There is?" She manages to grin in that feigning surprise way.

"What have you read?" Will cuts in, "Because it's all true."

Everyone laughs at that, jotting down their notes, the attention shifting away from Santana. She knows he only said it to fan the rumors, and of course, bring in the curious viewers. But now people are going to start suspecting, and fans will most definitely start speculating, and...fuck. The power of suggestion.

"You guys may or may not see that scene in a future episode," Will says. "So tune in!"

Santana glances at the blonde, sitting two seats to her right, while taking a sip from her bottle. She has no idea how Brittany can remain so fucking calm.

"Like I said, I love filming." The blonde adds jokingly, and Santana almost chokes on her water.

_With her free hand, Brittany shoves her shirt and bra up together, freeing her breasts, taking one taut peak into her hot mouth. The blonde's tongue flicks over it and Santana has to grit her teeth and swallow her scream. Her breath is coming in heavy pants as she clutches at Brittany's shoulders._

_The blonde's fingers delve lower, slowly circling her entrance with just enough pressure to have Santana moaning breathlessly. A sound that was both greedy and raw escapes her throat and Brittany plunges two fingers inside, her mouth muting Santana's gasp as her fingers probe between the girl's slick folds. Santana grinds down against the blonde's hand as her tongue moves inside her mouth. Her mind goes fuzzy, her whole focus on the building tension growing, throbbing within her. She was on fire. She's never felt this. Never known this. Never dreamed it would be this hot, this mind shattering. It's the worst fucking form of torture and it feels so incredibly good. She could feel the sensations building now, she's almost there. Santana fights against it, wanting it to never end._

__She sucks in a breath as Brittany thrusts a third finger into her, taking her up until she explodes, shards of sensation radiating through her, until she thinks she'd splinter and disintegrate. Right then and there.__

"Any plans yet for your Christmas album?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm going to head back to New York and start doing some songs next month," Brittany answers.

"You and Santana should do a duet together," someone comments. And the room goes off into oohh's and aahh's. Even people on the table were looking between the two of them expectantly.

Brittany just turns to the brunette in question, "What do you think?"

_Santana's orgasm is the most beautiful thing Brittany's ever witnessed. Her body arching to her, head thrown back as a thin cry shatters a part of the blonde's soul. Suddenly Brittany's own arousal catches up to the her. Her whole body is aching for Santana, she feels like she's about to pass out. She instantly pulls her closer, loving the feel of her warm, smooth, tanned skin. She licks and bites and sucks Santana's neck fiercely. Her blood raging through her veins, pounding in her ears, demanding more of the actress. She needs to feel Santana inside her._

_"I need you," She whimpers breathlessly in her ear. Santana seems to get the message loud and clear, unclasping the dancer's bra and shoving her shorts down in two seconds flat. They kiss frantically and Santana easily slides her fingers into Brittany, who clings to her like her life depends on it, nails digging into her shoulders._

_With every passing second, she can feel spirals of pleasure surging through her, coiling tighter and tighter, building. She has to tear her mouth away from Santana's in order to get some much needed air, all the oxygen in her lungs seems to have been sucked out. It feels way too long until their lips meet again. Santana's mouth covering her screams as her orgasm seizes her. It pounds through Brittany and she shudders almost violently at the force of it._

Santana could see Quinn out of the corner of her eye. She knows exactly what her manager would want her to say, and since she doesn't know how else to reply, she gives a flirty grin back. "We'll see, we'll see."

Oohh's and aah's are heard from around the room. Yeah, she has a feeling the upcoming episodes might be breaking some records ratings-wise.

"We're out of time, guys. Thanks for coming today." Will announces as everyone starts to stand up and leave. "Good job guys. Enjoy your long weekends, just don't show up drunk on Monday," he jokes, and a couple of people laugh politely as they all head to their respective cars and probably off to some ultra exclusive party.

_Later, as they fall asleep on the huge Queen-sized bed, tangled up in one another. Santana has this irksome fear that no one else would measure up._


	6. Chapter 6

It's 6pm the next day (Saturday, if your name happens to be Rebecca Black and you're wondering) and Santana's exhausted. God, researching was tough work. She's been online pretty much the whole day, going from site to site, doing all sorts of quizzes and tests and surveys, ignoring Quinn's calls and emails (it's a long weekend, whatever the fuck it is can wait). None of which have been "conclusive" or whatever. Still, she doesn't need to be told what she is and what she isn't. Because she's finally managed to come to the conclusion that's been there all along.

Santana Lopez is a loud and proud heterosexual, who just happens to have sex with girls. If she's known anything in her 21 years of existence, it's that sex does not equate to dating. So, as long as she doesn't go on a date with Brittany, it's all good.

Typed up and then proceeded to delete about a gazillion text messages to her? Little obsessive, but then so is writing porn about your favorite celebrities with other celebrities, and God, Quinn's shown her some pretty scarring words. Bitches be crazy indeed. Somehow go from an Wikipedia page about Alfred Kinsey to videos of Brittany dancing in clothes that looked as if they were designed to be ripped off her body? Nope, not dating. If that were dating then...they were both dating about a million people each. Thinking '_Yeah, be jealous._' in reply to comments on said videos? You guessed it, not a date. Aren't you a smart cookie.

With this new-found but not really discovery about herself, Santana decides to reward herself with a nice, relaxing trip to the huge bathtub in her bathroom and 15 whole minutes to unabashedly think about Brittany. It's not called fantasizing, because...of reasons. She refuses to let her stupid brain let doubts about her heterosexuality seep in. It's not gay. That's that.

The water is pleasantly warm, the room is filled with silence, she even lit some candles for good measure. Lazy, dozing, she allows the heat of the water to warm her body, ignoring the languid sexuality that's pulsing just under her skin. She ignores how her mind instantly goes back to the memory of Brittany's touch, her lips, her words. The seductive cadence in her voice or the way her eyes speak volumes. It's memorizing, unforgettable.

Beneath the bubbles, her hands run along her stomach, moving over the skin as she thinks of Brittany. Her touch. Hands smooth and warm. Santana shivers involuntarily, her own touch evoking sensations she'd felt beneath the blonde's. Her stomach muscles tighten as she runs her fingers over them, nails barely scraping, adding an extra edge to the sensation.

Yes, she wants Brittany, no amount of protesting from her own mind or whoever else's could say otherwise, she doesn't deny it. Can't deny it. She wants so much that it keeps her awake at night, tossing and turning. She hates how her mind is always disappointed when she doesn't feel Brittany's warm body next to hers. Of fucking course she's not going to be there. Santana remembers the smile, the adorable one that's anything but the sexy, confident persona Brittany has in public. She remembers sweeping a strand of blonde hair away from her face. It's stupid and corny, but she just liked it. Likes it. It's dangerous territory, she knows. But then again, there's still 12 minutes left on the timer.

Then her fingers move to her own lips. The blonde's kiss. She wants to moan. Brittany's lips moving over hers, tongue stroking the soft curves of her lips, nibbling at her. She remembers exactly how the girl's kiss demolished all objections, teased mercilessly and whispered words that left Santana panting for her.

Her neck. Her fingers stroked there, then down to her breasts, tracing the soft flesh as her mind takes her back to that hotel room. The way Brittany's teeth scraped over the skin, a whimpering moan exits her throat.

8 minutes.

Her fingers wander even lower. She thinks of the way the blonde's lips traveled over her stomach, mapping out the contours of her body. It makes her crave for more. It makes her mindless, unable to think, unable to listen to her fears. She bites her lip as her fingers pause at the waistband of her bikini bottoms.

5 minutes.

Does she dare?

A breathy moan escapes her. Santana needed what she can't have and this is all she has left. Her fingers dip beneath the soft material, her eyes shutting themselves as she-

A loud ring snaps her back to reality faster than the speed of light. Fuck. Did she really just...

No, best not think about it. Her timer still has 1 minute left, but Santana quickly shuts it off as she climbs out of the bathtub, grabbing a towel on the way to the source of the noise. Her home phone. Well, her other home phone, whose number only Norman - the doorman - has, in cases of emergency only. As in, whenever Quinn looks like she's about to barge in.

Still wrapped up in the towel, she picks up. "Yes?" The frustration is still evident in her voice, and as much as her mind would try to put it down to the fact that he's disturbing her from an otherwise peaceful day off, it's not.

"I'm sorry to bother you, miss Lopez, but miss Quinn Fabray is here."

"Tell her I'm fucking busy," she almost growls into the phone.

Santana hears a brief noise on the other hand, before a very pissed off sounding Quinn is suddenly talking. "I've been calling you all day, what the fuck is wrong with you? The car's going to be here in 15 minutes."

It's official, she now hates the number 15. "I'm sorry, what?"

Quinn sighs, "It's Rachel's birthday party tonight. Don't tell me you forgot. I sent you the memo last week, and then again this morning, since you might have gotten amnesia as a side effect to your '_sickness_' the other day."

The realization hits her like a bucket of ice water. Quinn managed to lure her to show up to the midget's birthday bash sometime before Brittany decided to show up and turn her world upside down. But that's _today_? Of all the days in the year, it has to be this one. And of course she also chose today of all days not to answer calls or even bother looking at texts from her manager. The fucking universe seems to be conspiring against her. With any luck, she'll be getting a ride there with none other than Brittany.

"Get dressed," Quinn says in that don't-fuck-with-me tone, "Or do you need to be reminded of how to do that as well?" Her voice reeks of sarcasm from someone who's pissed off.

"Fine. But what about-"

"Her present? Please, as if I'm gonna let you screw up the whole thing by getting something she doesn't like. I got everything covered. Just get dressed, do your thing tonight, and you'll be fine."

Santana doesn't even get a word in before Quinn hangs up.

Thank God for the new set of stunning dresses her stylist managed to snag still sitting pretty in her closet. Santana picked one at random, of course it makes her look hot, and put on some accessories. The whole process was almost like a fast forward motion. The car only had to wait half an hour, something which the driver was used to anyway.

She walks briskly, because she's sure that her manager would murder her if she arrived late. As expected, a sleek, black limousine is awaiting her, the driver standing patiently to open the door. When he does, Santana almost laughs.

_Note to universe: That was not a challenge._

So,Santana does the only thing she could do. Slide inside. Her breath hitches automatically at the sight of Brittany, and it also doesn't help that she's wound tighter than a spring right about now. Something which her scumbag brain has to keep on reminding her body. Or maybe it's the other way around.

"Hi," Brittany says, annoyingly calm and casual, like they didn't just have sex 2 days earlier and now Santana can't think about anything else.

Of course, Santana half wants to rip Brittany's dress off, half wants to ask why the hell she's so collected, and half wants to get out, away from Brittany, who now has her counting in three halves, and just take a taxi to the damn party. But instead, she settles for a, "Hi" back.

"Quinn kind of invited me, I hope that's okay."

Oh, now there she goes, biting her lip in an adorable way that'll put a puppy dog to shame, plunging a proverbial knife through Santana's resolve like it's nothing.

"Of course not, Rachel's a big fan of yours." Santana eyes a bottle of tequila nearby. She might just need some liquid courage to get through this car ride clothed. If Brittany were to kiss her right now, she's not sure if she'd have the strength to pull away. Already, whatever scent the blonde's wearing is getting to her head. Or worse yet, she doesn't even think Brittany's wearing perfume.

They don't speak much after that, which is fine by Santana. It gives her a chance to collect her thoughts while pretending to look at the scenery outside, the aspiring actors all wanting what she and Brittany have, and a chance to admire Brittany's designer's handiwork. Dress looks fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. So are her shoes. So is her necklace and earrings. Whoever did the dancer's hair and makeup is a total genius as well. Just about everything on Brittany is flawless. Completely heterosexual observation about the clothes, trying to make her stylist proud, etc etc.

Finally, after what seemed like forever (guess how long in actual time? 15 minutes) they pull up outside a famous 5-star hotel, where only the rich and famous are ever seen inside. Santana doesn't even wait for the driver to open the door for her. She needed some alcohol 5 minutes ago.

Inside the huge, fancy ballroom, the guest are mostly already there. Dressed in thousand dollar suits and designer dresses, chatting and laughing idly with each other. If it were Santana's birthday, it'd be a completely different crowd and at a different place (some place where the guests aren't stiff and rigid as cardboard, but each to one's own), but Rachel wants elegance and sophistication, according to Quinn. So here she is.

Santana heads straight for the bar and orders something strong-ish as she scans the place. Usual Broadway big-wigs who all want Rachel Berry in their latest productions, fellow stars, friends, etc etc. Nothing out of the ordinary. There's a stage, obviously, as if Rachel would pass up a chance to shine on her birthday.

Then she goes to her table, drink in hand, with every intention of making it last so as not to seem like an alcoholic, and whadya know, she's sitting with her cast mates, along with Quinn and the birthday girl. Which means that Brittany will be sitting across the table from her. all. night. long.

OK then. Who cares if she looks like an alcoholic, Santana downs the contents of the glass in one go. For a second, as the liquid travels down her throat, she thinks that maybe, with enough alcohol and tables to hop, she'll be able to get through this.

"Easy there. You might want to pace yourself." She doesn't even need to turn around to figure out who it is that's got their hand on her shoulder and whispering in her ear. Then again, Brittany doesn't even have to look her in the eyes to know that she's got the brunette eating out the palm of her hand and shivering beneath the slightest touch.

This was going to be a long fucking night.


	7. Chapter 7

Santana's been chain drinking (is that even a term? Screw it, she's Santana Lopez, if it wasn't before, consider it coined now) for the past...oh, 15 minutes or so, hoping that nobody would notice. Thankfully, all eyes are on the birthday girl, and the amazing conversationalist that is Brittany. Who knew. However, none of this alcohol seems to be doing the trick of getting her eyes off the blonde. She imagines...Oh, she imagines a lot of things. Santana's feeling rather hot under the collar, must be the drinks.

Occasionally, Brittany would throw a teeny, tiny smirk her way, from above the rim of her glass, but Santana's sure it's just hallucinations from the...well, whatever it is that's in her glass (she'd told the bartender to surprise her).

So when she feels a buzzing from her phone, she expects it to be a work related text. When she sees that it is, on the contrary, a text from a certain blonde sitting right across from her, her heart does **_not_** skip a beat.

'_Pls stop looking at me lik that. You're making it hard for me not to drag you back to my place right now.'_

She doesn't even dare look up from her cell phone screen, even as she senses heat rushing to her cheeks, just feels her breath get caught in her throat. Her heart pounds like crazy inside her chest, so loudly that she thinks people might actually be able to hear it. Even from across the table.

Santana just stares at the text message mutely, the phone laying neatly on her lap, unable to either close it or type up a reply.

"You alright?" Brittany actually has the most innocent expression on her face, like she's genuinely concerned.

"You seem a little -" Quinn looks her up and down, putting a gentle hand on her arm " - flushed."

Santana gulps inaudibly, still missing her voice, and gives a strained nod back, right hand already reaching for her glass.

Just then her phone vibrates again, and it almost makes Santana's knees jerk and bump the table from underneath. This time, she mentally prepares herself by taking a deep breath.

'_If you said that to me, we wouldn't even make it to yours._'

She visibly squirms in her seat, crosses her legs quickly. She's not sure how much more of this she'll be able to take. The blonde keeps finding newer and more effective ways to torture her.

"So Santana." Her head snaps up, and her hands automatically flip the phone shut, to a vaguely familiar face, champagne in hand and friendly smile on his face, which probably means he's not a stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a slight frown on Brittany's face, and it gives her an odd sense of satisfaction, that she still has _some_ control over this. But back to the guy, perhaps she's seen him...somewhere. Eurgh, usually Quinn takes care of all this name business, and now said blonde is looking at her expectantly, so he must be either a really important person or someone she's met plenty of times. Oops.

"I have to ask, Blaine and I are dying to know." He leans down, because sure, that'll keep people (Quinn) from overhearing his question, "are you two..." He trails off, gesturing between Santana and Brittany. The former almost spits her drink in his face in her haste to reply.

"No," she splutters out, shaking her head almost violently. "No, no no no. Me and -" she motions towards Brittany - "No, I mean, just, no. Like, seriously,_no_." Then she even throws her head back and laughs, albeit a little maniacally and somewhat strained. "I mean did you really th-" When she catches the sight of Quinn's raised eyebrow, the laughter magically stops, replaced by a more serious expression. "I mean - " Santana clears her throat " - I'm straight."

A sound suspiciously alike to that of a snort comes from Brittany's throat.

"Sorry. Cold." The blonde raises her hand in apology before drinking from her own glass of what looks to be red wine, a little too amused for someone who claims to have a sore throat and runny nose. "Continue on, please." The beginnings of an already too familiar smirk forming on her features.

The man turns back to Santana, nodding. "Well, are you seeing anyone?"

She's just about to reply when Quinn (finally) decides to jump in and save her ass. "Wow, back off my client there." She pokes him in the arm playfully, and it's enough to get his attention. "You still haven't thanked me for introducing you to Mr. Dapper, Kurt."

Right, that's his name. Kurt Tunnel...Kummer...Tumble...whatever his last name is. Blaine's boyfriend or partner or whatever the gays are calling it nowadays.

Her phone once again buzzes, and she's torn between wanting to rip out the battery and throw the device as hard as she physically can across the crowded ballroom, or read the text. But of course, being young and reckless, she goes for the clearly less wise option.

_'i want to go down on you til the sun comes up'_

Nobody blinked an eye when the pair promptly left not 5 minutes later, one after the other. Quinn just throws her an airy 'Don't be late on Monday', eyes still fixated to the stage where Berry's performing another Streisand classic. It's a wonder the woman herself couldn't make it tonight. But that's the last, last, last thing on Santana's mind right now.

* * *

><p>"Come with me," Brittany says, more like murmurs, much later. Much, much, much later. After they're both exhausted beyond belief. Even now, Santana just wants to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. She can't seem to get enough. The large hotel suite smells like sex, but neither girl seems to mind too much. They're too busy tangled up in one another. The blonde, for one, is tracing some random shapes (letters?) on her bare abdomen. Cool hands against her fevered skin.<p>

Santana has to force down an instant yes, instead she replies with, "Where?"

The blonde shrugs, "Anywhere. I don't care."

"Right now?"

"Sure, why not."

"But it's like - " Santana turns to her right, checking the digital clock on the bedside table " - 2.30 am."

"So? I don't want you to go, and I definitely don't want to sleep."

To be fair, Santana doesn't want to leave either. So she agrees.

They shower (separately), then get dressed, in more comfortable clothing this time round. Well, Brittany does, Santana's clothes are all at home. Luckily, the drive to Santana's takes only about 5 minutes, with practically no traffic.

They drive around aimlessly through the streets, and it's quite fun, to be honest. Brittany is great company if nothing else.

"What are your hobbies?" Santana's idly deleting certain text messages she received earlier then turns off her phone.

The dancer gives her a half incredulous, half amused look from the driver's seat. "You're seriously asking me what my hobbies are?"

"Isn't that what friends do?" It honestly just slips out before she can stop it.

Brittany's silent for a few seconds, her expression neutral, and Santana doesn't know why, but she feels nervous. Which is ridiculous, since that's exactly what they are.

"Go out with me tomorrow night." The blonde doesn't look at her when she says this for some reason, keeping her eyes firmly trained on the road instead. It's not a request, but it isn't a flat out order either. It is what it is.

"Like on a date?" It's a dumb question, but Santana just wants to buy some time, really.

"Mm hmm. You can find out all about my hobbies then."

She's 100% sure she'll regret this later, in the harsh morning light. She doesn't even want to think about what Quinn might do/say. But Brittany is just sitting right beside her, and seriously, she's fucking beautiful, and to be fair, straight women experiment all the time, so it's not a big deal anyway.

"Okay."

Just like that, Brittany visibly relaxes.

They have breakfast in some diner along the road, and it's not exactly five star dining, but they don't complain.

It's only when they part ways does she come to the horrible realization.

Quinn will fucking know about this, and she'll probably throw a grand coming out party, too. More likely than not with the banner '_I knew all along_' hanging from the ceiling.

Then inevitably, so will Rachel. Which, with that blabbermouth of hers, will mean that her two dads will find out as well.

She immediately fishes her phone out and turns it on, ready to call Brittany and cancel. But of course, Quinn, with ninja spying skills or something beats her to it. Santana sighs before pressing the 'answer' button.

"Quinn, I'm sleeping." She even fakes a yawn, but the blonde just laughs on the other end. The brunette knows that laugh, it means that Quinn had lots of sex the previous night (ew! Also, don't ask) or she just had some phenomenally good news.

"Goood morning sunshine. Sleep well last night? Or maybe not at all..." her voice sounds cheery. Too cheery.

"Yes, I slept right up until you called me at 9am on a day off."

Quinn scoffs, "Please, you act as if-"

The fatigue from last night is now finally getting to her, and she'll be damned if she lets Quinn carry on talking like this. "Ok, fucking touche. I slept with Brittany. Happy now?" It's a little louder than she intended, but thankfully, there's nobody around.

The other end goes dead quiet. For 1...2...3 seconds.

"Hello?"

"You...what?"

Santana freezes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuc-

"You...slept with Brittany? Like, slept slept or _slept_ slept?"

"No, I didn't. What?"

"I was talking about your new single on iTunes at midnight last night." (Of fucking course. How could she have forgotten something like that? No, don't answer) Oh my God you had sex with Brittany Pierce. You had _sex_ with _the_ Brittany S. Pierce. I mean I totally called it did I not?"

"No I didn't. You heard wrong. Jesus Christ." When in doubt, deny everything.

"You're gay panicking. You're gay panicking!" Santana hears a distant 'Rach, Rach wake up. Guess who's gay panicking? Where's your phonebook, I need to start calling some people' then something that could be identified as a scream or an uncharacteristic and slightly serial killer-esque squeak on the other end.

Great, now all Santana's gotta do is either hire an assassin or find a way to kill both the hobbit and her manager then dispose of the bodies.


	8. Chapter 8

She gets (predictably) bombarded with lesbian jokes in the form of texts by Quinn all morning and probably will continue to do so this afternoon. Not to mention several voice mails which, if you didn't know better, would sound like it was from someone who's drunk off their face and prank-calling their female gym teacher. Santana decides to just delete them all after hearing two. The sound of Quinn's raucous cackle (yes, the entertainment shark which a lot of companies are afraid of actually cackles like a crazy woman) becomes oddly scary after a while. She briefly wonders if there's some kind of book which compiles all the possible gay jokes she's found over the years that's lying around somewhere in Quinn's apartment, waiting for this very day to come. After a while, she comes to the conclusion that yes, yes, her manager probably does.

So, Santana does the only thing that comes to her sleep deprived, with no adrenaline to run on mind. Call Rachel Berry. The only person who could talk some sense into Quinn and get it through her head that Santana's actually still the straightest thing since the wonderful invention of the (straight) line. It's just that there's an exception to every rule and it seems as though Brittany, being the Goddess that she is, might be Santana's one exception. Also, why would she be gay panicking when she's straight?

Luckily the girl picks up on the first ring, before she has a chance to come to her senses and realize that her put-together-on-the-fly plan has some serious flaws.

"Santana, hi." She doesn't sound like an over-hyper blonde manager who just found out that she was right all along about a certain client's sexual orientation that's been denying it ever since the start, not that she even is. Gay, that is, because she is not. Good sign, Santana thinks. "Why are you calling me? Quinn's been trying to reach you all day after you hung up on her."

"Yes, Berry, and that's why the 'ignore' button on my phone has been fucking raped by my thumb." The sarcasm in her voice is unmistakably dripping down to the floor. "And if you value the two legs you use to hobble around then you will not utter a single word to alert Quinn to this phone call or its contents. Nod if you understand."

Silence on the other end, a sound rarely heard when Rachel's on the phone with you. Realizing that she can't actually see the hobbit, Santana sighs, "I meant say 'yes' if you understand. You don't have to, y'know, shut up altogether."

A small 'yes' is ushered into the mic on Rachel's end, and Santana takes the cue to continue before her scumbag brain can stop her. "How did you and Quinn...you know, get together?"

There's a light chuckle on the other end, and Santana can practically hear Rachel relaxing. This is something she's no doubt super comfortable talking about (amongst any other subject regarding herself, no doubt), comparable only to when she's on stage, singing her little heart out. She and Quinn get asked about the story of how they first met all the time. It was in high school, the blonde was the head cheerleader, dating the captain of the football team, while the brunette was the definition of a glee club loser. They'd hated each other all throughout high school, that's what everyone thought, at least. Sure, they'd pass the boyfriend back and forth like it was a tennis match, Finn Hudson, his name was.

Funny story about Finn, he'd proposed to Rachel in their senior year. A few weeks later he got his famous nickname, 'The lesbian whisperer'. Wait, no, that was Holly Holiday (believe it or not, she's not a porn star). The story about Finn was actually how each and every girl he slept with would turn into a lesbian. It got around so fast, some kids even deemed him to be 'Finn the lesbian'. True story. But back to the tale of how Rachel and Quinn both got their act together and started dating.

"It happened at a carnival, actually, how we first met. But the thing I remember most was when we went for a midnight walk once, and-"

"That's '_The Notebook_'."

"Oh, was it?" Yeahhh, Berry's not that good of an actress, at least when she's speaking. "Sorry, Santana. My memory's kind of rusty, having been with her for so long, you know?" Rachel clears her throat. "Anyway, where was I. Right, we fell in love at first sight at a young age. I remember how she invited me to a ball, actually. Our parents despised one another-"

"You do realize that I got into Princeton and was majoring in English literature before all this, right? Also, I _did_ go to high school,_ and_ don't live under a rock? That's Romeo and Juliet. I don't have time for this, I have a date with Brittany tomorrow and-" Santana instantly shuts up and internally curses at herself. Good thing stuff like this happens in live interviews and performances all the time. Little misshaps, not revealing details about your non-straight dating life to the girlfriend of your manager, who would probably die of excitement if she knew about this. So she recovers quickly.

"I meant like a workdate. So we could talk about our upcoming storylines and things like that." Now it's Santana's turn to clear her throat. "No big. But just to be clear -" She lowers her voice to a menacing hiss " -If you value your vocal chords like a good Broadway actress would the ability to do whatever it is you do to Quinn with those man hands, you will not tell a soul about any of this. Are we clear?"

"Quinn pushed me into a janitor's closet one afternoon at the start of our junior year," Rachel almost squeaks.

Well that's romantic.

Suddenly Santana's phone alerts her to a caller on the other line. It's Brittany. She has to consciously wipe to goofy grin off her face as she immediately puts Rachel on hold.

"Hi," She says, because she's just_ that_ smooth.

"How have you been since...6 hours ago?"

"Oh, just the usual. Unwrapping gifts from my millions of fans, buying a half a million dollar car, and I'm not trying to impress you, but I now officially have three thousand Facebook friends."

"Wow, that is impressive." They both laugh lightly, before Brittany continues, "So impressive, in fact, that I want to reschedule our _tête-à-tête _to tonight_._"

"Tonight?" She looks at her wrist watch. It's already 2.30 pm. "And when exactly will tonight start?"

"Six o'clock sound good?"

Santana cocks an eyebrow. "That's in 3 and a half hours time."

"You're right," Brittany pauses thoughtfully, "Five o'clock? My suite?"

"Aren't you sick of seeing my face? God knows I am. Sick of seeing my face, not yours, I meant."

"I figure why waste time. I leave in 2 weeks, Santana."

Oh, that's right. Brittany lives on the other side of the country.

"Okay." She tries to keep the disappointment in her voice. Doesn't want Brittany to leave. But then a thought pops into her head. It's an opportunity to spend as much time as she wants with the girl in the upcoming fortnight (without it seeming like an obsessed stalker), and she's not about to waste a second of it. "Let's go to my place for a change."

If the blonde noticed, she doesn't let on, "Great. See you then."

"Yeah, bye."

With that, she presses the end call button for the hundreth time that day.

"...and that's when I realized she's the only person I want waking up next to me every morning," Rachel finishes dreamily. It's funny because she's been put on hold for a good 5 minutes and doesn't seem to have caught on.

"Yes, that's awesome, Rach." To be fair, that should've been a sign to both of them, the use of that nickname. "Now put Quinn on."

"Uhh, okay."

A few seconds of shuffling later, Santana can tell Quinn's on the line.

"One word, Fabray. Not one fucking word."

Moments pass in silence.

"Good, now tell me what to do on a date."

Needless to say, Quinn Fabray was in a brilliant mood for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p>Santana's picked the most perfect spot she can think of on such short notice. Has Puck call some of his people to set everything up (thankfully, he knows when not to ask questions), and before she knows it, the hour hand on the clock reaches the number five.<p>

The date goes amazingly. Rooftop breezes, a waning moon, city lights wanting to become stars in the night sky. The food was prepared to perfection and the wine was aged just enough. However, it's none of those things that had both of them grinning from ear to ear the entire night.

To be fair, any date with Santana is, by default, the perfect date. She just had to make extra sure of that tonight. If the awesomeness of the date is inversely proportional to the amount of clothes still on by the end of the night (and it often is) then it's a phenomenal success.

It's hours later. The music is still flowing softly from the speakers beside the bed.

The dark is all but silent. There are footsteps below and outside, cars honking, being driven hurriedly from point A to point B on the busy streets. There are faint sounds of the old stairs creaking and water trickling. Today, there is also the sound of hearts beating; there are two, both slowly, steadily, on the border between reality and dreams.

She turns on her side and places her hand on the warm chest beside her, burying her face in the crook of the girl's neck. An unconscious smile flickers in the dark.

Under her hand, a beat skips then the steady rhythm is quickly resumed; so sleepy, so comforting, so close. It's just like the beat of her own heart, and just like the beat of the music too. It's in this moment that she realizes something.

"I haven't slept for 48 hours thanks to you."

"I apologize?" She doesn't sound the least bit sorry. But to be fair, Santana doesn't sound very angry about it.

Santana murmurs something incomprehensible in reply.

"So, shall I leave the cash on the table?"

"Is that all I am to you?" The brunette removes her hand from Brittany's body and places it over her own heart, feigning hurt.

"You're right, that would be a little awkward considering we have to see each other again in 5 hours on set."

Santana groans, "Ugh, don't remind me."

"Get some rest. You look like you need it."

She already has a sarcastic reply on her tongue, but Brittany's hand tenderly yet hesitantly stroking her hair is so relaxing, her eyes droop close on their own accord.

"'Night, Brittany."

"Goodnight, Santana." She has other words on her tongue, but sleep has already claimed the other girl.


	9. Chapter 9

The next two weeks pass by in, Santana's quite sure, a blink of an eye. It's all a flurry of dates and sex and deliriousness. On set, they exchange secret glances and shy smiles, which, of course, is all overseen by Quinn (who is on cloud 9, still, that she's right all along and if God forbid, things with Brittany doesn't work out then she's got a room full of hot women all dying to meet Santana) while at nights, it's all canceled press commitments and dates that give the ones on _The bacholorette_ a run for its money. So yeah, Santana can't exactly complain.

Santana doesn't know what's come over her. In her head, it's just Brittany Brittany Brittany, almost 24/7. She can't seem to escape her! The blonde even invades what's deemed to be the most peaceful time of the day, sleep. No, not in the 'she keeps Santana up all night long' kinda way, the 'she's in every single one of her dreams' kind of way. The weirdest thing is, Santana doesn't mind. In fact, she finds herself smiling whenever her mind drifts off into Brittany land. It's only now that she's come to this realization. Only now does she realize how much she does _not_ mind. Does it freak her out a little bit? Sure, but not enough to do anything drastic or stupid about it. She figures Brittany would be off on her way soon, anyway. Best to enjoy it now while it lasts and make every second count, not conjure up pointless drama that would lead to no sex. Time is of the essence and all of that. The blonde's already wrapped up her scenes for the and leaves in 2 days time. Santana tries not to think about it too much.

She doesn't get any sleep that night. It's a surprise to both of them when they just talk instead of having sex. They go out for coffee at around 1am and just wander around the streets. It's quite nice, this time of the day (night?) Nobody cares enough to ask for their autographs or pictures, and those that are fans are too drunk to care. The paparazzi don't suspect a thing, they're all too busy staking out the many, many popular clubs around town, waiting on other stars to stumble.

"Listen, Santana," Brittany starts, her hands fidgeting, an unsure look on her face, and the brunette has to take a breath to steady herself before she chickens out.

"No," she holds her hands up. She has to say this, "I have to tell you something first. These past two weeks with you have been amazing. You're amazing, you know that, right?"

Brittany smiles, so she continues. "Someone very wise once told me that the people who makes up happy are never the ones we expect, so when you do find someone, you've got to cherish it."

"You watch _Skins,_ too?"

Santana clears her throat, "Um, yeah, anyways." She grabs both Brittany's hands in hers, and it's really, really nice. "What I'm trying to say is that you make me pretty happy."

"You make me happy, too."

"Yeah?"

Brittany nods, beaming, "Yeah."

"Good then."

Then Santana remembers. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"

The blonde shakes her head. "Doesn't matter now."

They stroll around some more after that, then drive back to Santana's place where they marathon ridiculous Lifetime movies and make fun of the bad writing. It's surprisingly a lot more fun than either of them anticipated.

* * *

><p>The next day, Brittany's scheduled to perform live in front of a huge crowd, and of course, Santana's watching somewhere amongst the screaming fans.<p>

It takes her exactly two songs to fall in love, or more precisely, to realize she has. The first hit her in the middle of the performance, swift and crisp and to the point, like the drums she could hear somewhat distantly, and, reverberating, it leaves her with no shock or surprise, no doubt, no, just a little confusion. Frozen on the spot, eyes transfixed on the silhouette of the vocalist's, shimmering under the bright stage lights. She finds herself wishing that those beautifully sung lyrics are for her and her only. Predictably, straight after the last song ends and Brittany's waved goodbye to the adoring fans, Santana slams her against a wall backstage and kisses her like her life depended on it.

"What was that for?" Brittany asks breathlessly, lips swollen and red.

Santana shrugs, "You look really hot performing."

"What was it the other day about you being straight again?" The blonde gives her a flirtatious grin and beckons for her to come into her dressing room, locking the door behind them.

She starts singing the chorus of _The only exception _in a deliberate off-key tone, and Brittany laughs until she shuts her up with a kiss.

People would often ask her how she manages to keep in shape so well, even with all the hectic schedules. There's your answer. Sex burns around 400 calories per hour. Not to mention, kissing is a fantastic stress and pain reliever. But anyways.

The next night, mere hours before Brittany has to leave, she takes out her signature guitar from its case. It's all very romantic comedy-esque and reminiscent of sappy romance novels. Except the last thing she'd do right now is roll her eyes and make some snarky comment (even in her head). Because even ice has to melt some time.

They're out on the balcony when Brittany starts singing something, strumming along on the instrument, and this time, it _is_ all for her. About halfway through, she joins in with the vocals, until Brittany stops singing and playing altogether and then it's just her.

At the end of her very first son et lumière, Santana finally plucks up the courage to say, "I like you. A lot." Her voice is shaky, but can you blame her? It's not like she's ever done this, nor did she ever expect that one day, she would be. But when life gives you lemons..."Will you be my girlfriend?"

She can't see the expressions wavering in the pair of green eyes opposite hers, as Brittany looks at her for one heart-stopping second then casts her gaze back down to her guitar. She doesn't know what Brittany's doing or trying to do when she absentmindedly plucks a strings, incoherent notes disintegrating in the wind. What Santana does know, is positively certain of, is that after, it's cool wrists inside her hot palms, closer, closer, until there's nothing left between the two of them aside from the guitar. Later, it's carelessly disposed on the floor, similar to their pieces of clothing, the complete opposite of the royal treatment it's used to getting.

Santana snuggles into the crook of the blonde's neck. The feel of warm skin there already left an imprint on her mind and she ignores the voice of reason that they really should be heading to the airport by now or Brittany might miss her flight and probably receive an earful from her management team for it. They don't have much time left. But just another five minutes isn't going to hurt.

And now finally, they're here, much to Santana's displeasure. At the airport, awaiting the flight Santana selfishly hopes has been cancelled, or at the very least, extremely delayed.

Of course, this is reality and not the movies she's always made fun of, so the flight in question arrives on time. Obviously they wouldn't dare be late, unless the captain's died or something, thanks to one particular high profile, blonde haired passenger.

It's not the end, one big plus of being in this industry is that you have the means to jet off anywhere, especially in the country, pretty much anytime you want. They'll see each other. There's still that duet which fans are kicking and screaming for. Honestly there's never been a time when she's loved her fans' borderline obsessive tendencies more than she does now. This might be the first time they've crossed paths, but it sure as hell won't be the last. Not if Santana has a say in it.

It's this thought that assures her as she gives Brittany a longing hug. They're in the first class lounge, full of business executives who are all too busy with their laptops or newspapers to care about yet another two Hollywood crazes.

When the time comes for Brittany to board her flight, Santana doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to lose what's she's only just got, no matter how short til they see one another again. With each passing day it'll be another day too long.

"Bye, Santana."

"I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay."

That's the last thing she hears before the blonde disappears behind the automatic doors...

It takes a little while longer than both of them had hoped until they did see one another again. But thank God (or me, but you know, whoever you want to thank is fine), they did.

Then, I guess, they lived happily ever after.

Until- Well that's another story altogether, maybe for a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Le fin (not Finn the lesbian, fin as in the end. Just making sure you know we're not ending this on a low note)

* * *

><p>P.S: You hungry? No? Good, I am. That bacon's been calling my name for hours. Rachel told me to get some rest and then enjoy breakfast in the morning.<p>

But how do I rest when that beautiful piece of meat is stuck inside a refrigerator? It is a crime against humanity. A crime against those wonderful pigs for sacrificing themselves! A complete and utter-

Oh wait, sorry guys, Rach's calling me back to bed. So I better go, bye.


End file.
